


how sin tastes on his tongue

by nellii



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Creature Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt No Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Throwing up (at the end), Vampire Turning, Vampires, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27917908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellii/pseuds/nellii
Summary: The Wolf of Lettenhove hunts the Vampire of Blaviken.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 98
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #01





	how sin tastes on his tongue

Jaskier’s heart was in his throat. As a Witcher, the bloody thing usually only hummed a slow, monotonic rhythm like a tired drummer. Even in the most dire of situations, Jaskier stayed calm and collected, his heartbeat soft thumping beneath a cage of bones and sinewy flesh. The Wolf of Lettenhove could fight or prattle his way out of any situation with weapons of wit and steel or silver strapped onto his back. No monster, no beast, no cruel human with a penchant for prejudice against Jaskier’s kind could best the man who killed like no other. Even his wolven brothers couldn’t match Jaskier’s untempered skill with his tongue and his blade.

Not now. 

Not when it mattered most. 

The beast was on his tail and Jaskier’s heart was beating out of control. He could hardly get a handle on his breathing, and if Witchers could hyperventilate and black out, he was sure he’d be passed out on the damp stone streets of this disgusting Blaviken back alley by now. 

The beast gained on him as he turned the corner into a dead-end. Jaskier panicked, throwing back a moondust bomb and clapping both hands of his ears as a deep boom emanated through the alley. Sharp spikes of silver exploded out in an arcing radius, a good handful striking Jaskier’s armored back and falling to the ground. The creature let out a sharp gasp and the Witcher could only hope and pray that some of the silver shards had made their home in the beast’s flesh, burning and boiling skin and digging in further the more the thing tried to pull them out.    
Jaskier whipped around, drawing his silver rapier in time to parry the beast’s long claws away from him. The slide of sparks it drew illuminated the beast’s snarling, monstrous face for a second enough for Jaskier to glimpse his visage. 

Skin pale. So pale Jaskier could see each bluish vein in his forehead. Long hair white as snow whipping around skin gnarled to make room for his permanent snarl, his long needled teeth only inches from snapping into Jaskier’s neck. As soon as the light was there it snapped out of existence and Jaskier was grappling a pair of claws in the dark, grunting with effort and straining against any limit of his strength. His muscles burned. His hand holding the grip of his rapier shook. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t stand up to the strength of the Vampire of Blaviken.

In a last ditch attempt to win their contest of strength, Jaskier’s other hand flew up to brace the top of his rapier. Even with thick leather bracers protecting his palm the sword cut through flesh and stopped only with the sickening sound of silver bracing against bone. He barely felt the pain, it was hidden behind a curtain of terror and unbelievable exertion.

Perhaps the Wolf of Lettenhove had finally met his match. About time, anyway. He had a damn good run. 

Blood welled up and flowed past his torn leather glove, dripping down the silver blade like a crimson waterfall. In the moonlight, in the lack of anything except for the catlike glint of the vampire’s eyes and the moon’s reflection in a grime puddle just a few feet away, Jaskier’s blood looked black as tar. 

And he could pinpoint the moment the vampire’s wrath went from ire to bloodlust. Something terrible changed in the air, and Jaskier could not match the strength of a fully blood-driven vampire. He was knocked back, falling flat as all the air forcefully left his lungs. His sword flew from his hand, clattering in the wet puddle out of reach, droplets of blood spraying from the blade onto the stone beneath them. The vampire descended, and Jaskier could not see the bare light anymore. 

He could not see at all.

He felt twin pinpricks in the soft skin of his neck, right above his jugular. He felt the slide of fangs slotting into place and he felt the wet-cold seal of lips suckling at his skin as the creature began to feed from him. 

“Ghh-” Jaskier warbled, struggling weakly and pushing against the thing’s chest. “Ng- Sttt-” he tried to cry out, to protest, to say  _ anything _ , but the fangs tightened in warning and he felt them slide even deeper. He felt them pierce through, and he felt the warm, sickly rush of blood flooding his throat. His own blood. He was going to drown in his own blood. It was going to fill his lungs, dribble from his cold lips as the vampire drank until he was dry and white as a sheet. 

Fitting for a Witcher. To die in battle. It was just a painful shame Jaskier could not save the people of Blaviken from the vampire torturing and terrorizing their families. 

His hands weakly hitting at the vampire’s chest became slow and sluggish, and then stopped altogether, the Witcher’s hands falling limp against the ground. The creature had one hand oh so gently cradling Jaskier’s head, claws retracted to bury his fingers in the Witcher’s soft brown hair. He stroked his thumb down the nape of Jaskier’s neck, soothing and calming in a way that should have made him feel sick. Instead, it lulled him, calmed his racing heartbeat. The thing’s other hand gently tangled up in his hair and tugged up, not hard enough to hurt, but exposing Jaskier’s neck completely. Jaskier could feel the being caging him in, straddling his hips and using it’s strong thighs to keep him pinned. It was strangely safe, strangely warm. It didn’t even hurt any longer. The warmth in his throat was comforting. The hands in his hair were soft. He was held, and he wasn’t dying- no- he was becoming, rather. He was being guided into another form. Another…

-

Geralt of Blaviken held the Witcher like he was the most fragile gift in the world. And he was. Not often, not ever did the higher vampire get to drink from a  _ Witcher _ of all things. One whiff of the man’s blood and Geralt could not control himself. He had intended to kill the Witcher and then bleed him dry, but the intoxicating taste of his blood was too alluring. He couldn’t let the Witcher die, not when he tasted so good, looked so beautiful pale in the moonlight with blackish blood staining his lips and chin. Geralt drank just enough to sate himself, leaving enough for the Witcher to survive his turning. His changing. 

The hand cradling the back of the Witcher’s head tightened, Geralt’s fingernails scraping bluntly against his scalp. He wanted so much out of the Witcher. He wanted… companionship. 

Friendship?

No. Companionship. He wanted such a beautiful creature to be by his side. For centuries, if he could, and  _ yes _ , he could. Geralt’s jaw locked and he stopped sucking the Witcher’s blood, and began to secrete his own into Jaskier’s bloodline. The Witcher didn’t move beneath him, but Geralt could make out the gentle slow beat of his heart. 

Geralt pulled back. His hand still cradled the unconscious Witcher’s head, one hand sliding over the holes in his throat to stop his infectious blood from leaking out. He would turn this Witcher, and he would make him his… friend. His friend.

Yes, something of the sort. It sounded silly. It sounded childish. 

But he was so  _ lonely _ . 

An hour passed. The Witcher did not wake, but he did not die. Geralt did not move. Not an inch. 

Until he did, in a flurry of panic and of disgust, feeling the Witcher’s blood bubble in his stomach and the reality of his actions dawn on the frenzied man. He dropped the Witcher, his head banging against the stone before Geralt was standing up and stumbling back. 

He stared at the pale body, turning, and vomited into the darkness of the alleyway. 

It was impossible, to fathom, to put into comprehensible thought the immense guilt and blame Geralt of Blaviken felt upon turning the beautiful Witcher into a horrible monster. 

The process would be painful. Geralt knew, he had lived through it. He knew that the one thing a young budding vampire needed when he was going through the month of torture, of fever and sweats, of untameable bloodlust, of muscle aches and bleeding gums as his sharp teeth grew in, was another to hold his hand as tight as he needed it. 

Geralt knew.

He ran anyway. 

He left Jaskier on the stone, passed cold out, vampiric blood flowing through his body and changing every bit of him into a monster like Geralt. He left him with no intentions to return to the man during that month of transformation. He left him, and he didn’t look back, though the guilt was as heavy as lead in his chest weighing him down every step out of that dark, disgusting, blood-spattered alleyway. 

**Author's Note:**

> Do let me know if you’re interested in a part two


End file.
